


Homeward Winds

by NoxCaligo



Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Bilbo is Calypso, F/M, I made Smaug a kraken, I'm Sorry, Jealous Bilbo, M/M, Pirates of the Caribbean AU, Ship Wrecks, Thilbo, Thorin is Davy Jones, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxCaligo/pseuds/NoxCaligo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short Pirates of the Caribbean AU. Thorin is Davy Jones, captain of a damned ship and doomed to ferry souls for eternity because he fell in love with a god. But things could be worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeward Winds

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy this idea that has been nagging me.

Cries could be heard over the roar of the crashing waves. Lightning lit up the sky with terrifying cracks and the rain pelted down on the heads of the sailors struggling to keep their heads above the waves. One in particular, a young man named Bard struggled to keep ahold of a plank—one he assumed was a broken piece of the deck—that was floating nearby. To it he clung as he coughed up the salty ocean water that had flooded his mouth as he initially went under. What they had hit was a mystery to him; they were in open water—no reef could possibly have been under them at such depths. In the back of his mind he could hear an old sailor’s tale, warning of a large creature that swam the depths, but the words were escaping him.

Bard paddled towards the wreckage of his ship. Bodies of his comrades floated along the water but a few survivors were huddled on the remains of their broken vessel. He made his way over to them, happy to be out of the crashing waves. But the others looked far from happy; their eyes were blown wide and many were sitting curled up rocking back and forth. The few who had teeth were chattering them nervously. He slowly approached one of the deck hands. They hadn’t been out to sea long as a crew, only about four days, so he didn’t know the man’s name but he knew he often helped adjust the sails.

                “What did we hit?” Bard asked. Guild was beginning to settle in. After all, he was the navigator and he steered them right into…something.

The man just shook his head violently and continued to rock, muttering incoherent nonsense under his breath. Bard looked around anxiously before settling down on his knees beside the man. “Look, we need to get out of the rain or—“

His words were cut off as he felt the wreckage give a lurch which sent him falling to the ground, whacking the wooden planks of the deck with his chin. The deck hand was tossed to his side were he curled into a ball and gave a pathetic whimper.

The stomp of boots filled the air as though the ocean and rain fell utterly silent. A pair of black boots stopped right before Bard’s nose.

                “On your feet.”

Bard hesitantly did as he was told, helping his crewmate up as he went.

The man before him was tall and grim. His eyes were a stormy blue like the ocean that surrounded them, his hair long to his shoulder blades the color of ink—the same as his trimmed beard. His boots and jacket were made of worn, black leather that spoke of a long time being pelted by the salty waters. Around his neck there was a string and tied to the end was a strange key that looked nearly too heavy for the string.

Behind this stranger was a group of men, each with long ornate beards adorn with shells and beads, and clothes that were tattered beyond repair. Weapons in hand they stood like an intimidating wall. Bard and the other sailors were forced together further on the deck; the man he had helped up was now running his boney fingers over a rosary, muttering prayers under his breath.

The man, who seemed to be the group’s leader stood before the shipwrecked crew, his eyes scanning the ten that were remaining with sharp eyes. His eyes then darted over the water where bodies were bobbing in the waves.

                “It appears that I’ve come just in time,” the stranger said. His voice was nearly as deep and menacing as the thunder that rumbled in the sky.

 _Just in time?_ Bard thought to himself.

He walked up to one of the men—the chef if Bard remembered correctly—and stared into his frightened eyes. “Why do you shake so?”

The chef had his fists balled at his sides and was soaking wet from the rain. His mustache which used to be wispy and nearly comical was flattened pathetically against his lips. “I-I-I know w-who you are-!”

The crew standing behind the man all burst into malicious laughter. The man himself broke a small smile before it disappeared again. Each of the surviving members of Bard’s crew was all looking around at the newcomers in horror.

                “Oh? And dare say, who am I exactly?” he asked in a low tone.

                “You’re…Thorin Oakenshield…” he shuttered, “The captain who ferries souls…!”

This statement drew frightened murmurs from the sailors. Thorin Oakenshield, the damned captain of an equally damned crew, destined to sail the seven seas collecting souls of sailors. A chill ran down Bard’s back as he realized that this man meant to take their souls. The man beside him clutched his rosary tighter as tears streamed down his face; he continued to frantically pray. Before them was the infamous crew of the Flying Dutchman, a ship said to have been to hell and back, unsinkable, the vessel of the devil himself. The ship was anchored not too far off from their own wreck, its wood looking sick and weatherworn, a testament to never being allowed to dock at port…

                “Then I assume I need no introduction,” Captain Thorin ground out. He lacked the appearance of a devil, but his tone was enough for the man beside Bard to pray even more frantically.

                “We’re truly damned then…!” another crewmate sobbed.

                “Oh quit yet blubberin’!” the tall second mate standing behind the captain snapped. He was a muscular fellow with a brown beard and balding head inked with tattoos.

Thorin left the first man and came to stand by the one who had made the outburst. “Do you fear death?”

The man stared at him, unsure.

                “I asked you, do you fear death sailor? Do you fear that crushing black oblivion that awaits you when you draw your last breath?”

This time the man nodded vigorously. “I don’t want to die…” he whimpered.

Thorin smirked. These were words he loved to hear judging by the look on his face. “Then I’ll give you a choice. You can die here and embrace the void…or you can join my crew…and serve on my ship for eternity.”

In only a breath the man was nodding quickly. “Y-Yes! I would choose to serve you, C-Captain!”

Thorin nodded. An older looking fellow with a long white beard threaded with pearls stepped forward, motioning him forward. The man all but scrambled towards him, slipping around on the deck as he did so.

                “Anyone else care to join us?” Thorin asked.

Bard bit his lip. Should he join a damned crew? They served for eternity didn’t they? What about his kids back home?

                “I would never join you!” he heard a man down the line growl. “You all are damned souls on a damned ship!”

Thorin snorted and rounded on him faster than Bard’s eyes could track. The captain stood before the man—who was quickly deflating with hesitation and fear—and spat at his feet. “All this is true, sailor, and aye, you don’t _have_ to join us.” He then took several steps back and gave a low whistle.

It was a strange gesture, one that made the men of the Flying Dutchman’s crew tense up where they stood. The water seemed to go silent; the constant lapping against the broken vessel stilling for a moment before resuming. From the depths there came a mighty noise, one Bard could only relate to the moan of a large whale. But what emerged from the dark sea was no whale. Quick as viper a long tendril shot out of the ocean. The dark red scaly tentacle darted past the men of the Flying Dutchman, wrapped around the torso of the man who had rejected joining and gave a swift yank. It all happened so quickly—one moment the man was standing there gaping the next he was gone beneath the waves. There were several moments of shocked silence before bloody bubbles began to surface.

                “I ask again,” Thorin said, “who would like to join my crew?”

Of the eight men standing with Bard, seven of them slowly nodded. It was only the man beside Bard that did not agree.

                “You there!” the one with the tattooed head barked. “Will you still not join us? Even after you’ve seen your comrade fed to Smaug?”

Smaug. The fearsome red kraken of the ocean. It was said in lore to trail after vessels, wrecking them at the most opportune moment and devouring the sailors onboard. Bard could recall that tale from one of his first voyages; he had been young and some of the more free spirited sailors who were veterans at sailing had tried to scare him with horrible tales of the deep blue. For Smaug to actually exist…He could tell from the looks on some of the older sailors’ faces that they couldn’t quite believe it either—despite seeing one of their crewmates dragged under by the beast.

Although trembling, the man who was still running his fingers over the round wooden beads looked into the eyes of the taller man from the Flying Dutchman. “I will not join you. Of course I-I’m scared, but G-God has a plan for me! If I am to die here it is because he wills it-!”

                “That’s foolish—“

                “Dwalin,” the captain called out, surprising everyone. “Leave him. He has his beliefs and we will leave him to them.” The man named Dwalin glared at the religious man before stepping away and back to his crew’s side. “As for the rest of you…welcome aboard.”

Someone from the Flying Dutchman, a man with brown hair and a strange flap hat rowed a small dinghy over to them. Two at a time were rowed over with a couple from the Flying Dutchman crew accompanying them. Bard got on the last ride over, his companions the chef, Dwalin and Thorin.

                “What do you plan to do with him?” Bard asked in scarcely a whisper, his eyes trained on the man that had been by his side during the whole encounter. The man was now sitting on the deck, eyes downcast to his rosary.

Thorin shoved off from the slowly sinking vessel, his boot nearly hitting a body that had washed up. “Nothing,” he replied sarcastically. “He shall soon see this _plan_ his God has in store for him.”

The planks of the remaining wreckage were beginning to creak and snap as the waves continued to lash against it. Slowly it began to take on water until it was up to the man’s feet. The last Bard before he was forced up the ladder of his new ship were the wooden boards finally giving way to the ocean and the man’s head disappearing beneath the waves.

* * *

 

Oh how he tired of the sea. It was beautiful, of that he could not deny—it was a lovely mix of blue and green and it held majesty and fearsome power which land lacked. There was constant sound on the high seas whether it is the lapping of the waves on the sides of the ship or the whistle of the wind through the sails or the cries of the gulls. But oh how he tired of it. For a captain who led a ship who could not pull into port except for every ten years he grew so tired of looking at it, smelling constantly the smell of salt water and feeling the constant rocking beneath his feet. How he longed for firm earth, the bustling of seaside cities and the sounds of walking on something other than wood. He wanted to see the rolling hills, the vast forests of trees, fields of flowers…

Thorin let his fingers waltz across the keys of his organ, producing a haunting noise that his crew often hummed without thinking. When he was irritated or lonely, or anything other than ordinary really, he sat at his organ and played. He allowed his immortal heart to bleed out through the music in ways words could not express. He had slowly watched the world pass him by through the souls he collected; the style of their clothes, hair and way of talking had all changed since he had been a young sailor and it grieved his heart to know that on land there was no family that waited on the shore to see the sails of his ship, nor any friends waiting to share a drink with him. But such was the life of the damned captain. All he had for company was his crew and the sea.

Except for one.

The only one he knew of waiting for him ashore, hidden back in a bayou by himself, probably with a cup of tea in hand. Another immortal, nearly as cursed as he. A god with the powers to calm or agitate the sea, one whom all sailors of ancient times bowed to even if they weren’t aware of it.

Thorin had been young and foolish when they had first met in a seaside tavern. He had been drinking heavily with his friends when the other man entered the bar, his golden blonde curls and emerald eyes had been able to captivate and sober him up enough to talk to him. He had a smile which was sweeter than honey and a voice that could make angels weep.

                _“What is your name sailor?”_

_“Thorin Oakenshield…at your service.”_

_“And Bilbo Baggins at yours.”_

They had talked all evening; his friends had left him at the bar for how long he could not say because he had left with the young man that night. They had wandered to the nearby inn that he was resting at before his ship was set to shove off. The two despite having known each other for a few hours took to bed quickly and passionately, their activities not ending until the early morning when the sun was due to rise.

                _“I’m sorry if I mislead you,”_ Thorin had whispered against the pale skin of Bilbo’s shoulder. _“But I am due to set sail tomorrow.”_

Bilbo looked sad, but not surprised. _“I figured as much. I could tell you were a sailor the moment I laid eyes on you. But I have time. I will wait for you.”_

And wait he did. Thorin was gone at sea for two months—a relatively short voyage for a trading mission. And when he returned he visited the same tavern only to find the curly haired man sitting at a stool, two drinks before him. When Thorin approached Bilbo turned and smiled.

                _“Welcome back.”_

It went on like that for years. Thorin grew from being just a young deck hand into a man who knew his way around a ship. He went on adventures at sea always knowing that the beautiful man he had met that fateful night in the bar would always be there with a mug of ale or the like on the day of his return. They slowly got to know each other in between his jobs. Bilbo lived outside of port by himself in a small home that one could liken to a greenhouse because of how full of beautiful flowers and plants it was. He stirred up elixirs and medicines for the local doctors because he grew the necessary herbs. But despite his love for his plants Bilbo loved the sea. He enjoyed sitting by the water’s edge with his feet dangling in the sea and even more he loved to talk to the sailors that sailed it. Thorin wasn’t sure how old his companion was—not that he cared much—but he found it a little strange he never spoke of family or friends. But what was that to him? He had no family to speak of either, only friends who came and went—all except Dwalin and Balin, a pair of brothers who were distantly related to him and he had known since youth.

It was just Thorin and Bilbo. Thorin had believed it just to be a casual thing where he would hook up with the other man whenever he was in town—but it was more than that. While he was out at sea he dreamt of him, he thought of him constantly and longed to be back on land with him.

But Thorin made a mistake. He was out on sea for six months—not too uncommon for one sailing to distant countries. But while he was on land before he was set to leave the distant town of Erebor, drinking at a tavern with his fellow crewmates, he was approached by a woman. She was tall and thin and cloaked in a short dress the color of gold not too unlike her hair. Her smile was dazzling and seductive, her eyes dark and alluring.

                _“Hello sailor. Might I interest you in an adventure?”_

_“An adventure? I’m sorry miss, but I’m already-“_

_“Already taken? A shame. Then would you at least do me a favor and spin me a tale of yours from the sea? Surely you have a few.”_

A few indeed he had. Ale came and went and he continued to spin stories of storms nearly wrecking his ship, overflowing treasure hordes of men from distant lands, of ports in full scale rebellions. The woman sat, enthralled with his tales for hours in the smoky tavern before landing the first kiss on his hand, then his cheeks, then his lips. Somewhere in the back of Thorin’s mind he thought of Bilbo back at his home port, sitting by his harp making a beautiful song, but the woman’s nails dancing up his skin and her hot mouth on his neck made him sigh. He hadn’t realized how lonely he had been…how much want had been welling inside him both for treasure and for a lover. He awoke the next morning in the bed he had rented at an inn, the fair haired woman sleeping beside him.

He had made a mistake. Guilt surged through him both as he saw her upon waking and as he fled the inn without a word to his female companion.

The trip by was agonizing. Knowing Bilbo was to be waiting for him…someone who cheated on him. And the sea was stormy on top of that.

What he found upon returning was not what he expected. It was rather what he didn’t find that startled them. Bilbo was not at the tavern—but he was always there when he returned as if he knew the exact time he was set to arrive. Where could he be?

Thorin left the tavern and ventured to the outskirts of town in the quiet of the evening searching for the lover that he knew he needed to come clean to. He found Bilbo’s home with ease and found the familiar round door unlocked. The house smelled just as he remembered—like wood and apples. But something was amiss. As he wandered the house, calling out for Bilbo he found nobody until he heard a soft noise coming further from within.

In the bedroom he found Bilbo tangled in the thick sheets that Thorin had once inhabited with a stranger—someone other than Thorin. He had long blonde hair, blue eyes and a thin body. So entangled they were than when Thorin barged in the stranger couldn’t break away fast enough to deny what they had been in the middle of. Bilbo however sat upright, his eyes shining an otherworldly gold as he stared into Thorin’s eyes angrily. Sweat clung to both bodies and Bilbo’s company couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

                _“Bilbo-“Thorin_ had all but whispered, as if any loud noise would make him more acutely aware this wasn’t a dream.

 _“An eye for an eye Thorin,”_ Bilbo growled.

_But how did he already know?_

He looped an arm around the man in his bed and pulled him back down close to him. _“Please continue_ ,” he purred.

And the man hesitantly complied and after hearing the first moan Thorin stormed out. He didn’t return in the time he was in port; instead he opted to rest in the inn with Dwalin and Balin. It was then that they discussed a plan to sail with a crew to search for treasure that was reportedly off the coast of a city called Moria. It had been told that a ship carrying gold for the treasure of a long gone government had wrecked on the rocks there hundreds of years before.

                _“All we need is a captain,”_ Dwalin had said, eagerly slamming back some bourbon. _“We have the ship—spent a pretty penny on it, but we have a ship!”_

_“And you want me to be that captain?”_

_“Who else would be better? You have the most experience, and you have an air about you to be feared!”_ Balin had added.

After assembling a crew they left the port of Hobbiton and sailed for Moria. While on the sea Thorin barked out commands and lashed out at those who did not comply. He was furious over the betrayal by Bilbo, even if he did deserve it. He had seen that blonde lover before he was sure, but what had his name been?

The seas were rough as they approached Moria. The water thrashed up against the side of their vessel, spraying over the edge as the boat rocked up and down with the waves. Moria was a seaside town wedged in between the rocky coast and imposing mountains and was notorious for the shipwrecks just off its beaches. As Thorin and his crew was due to land within a day their navigator, a young man named Ori approached the mast where Thorin was surveying the sea.

_“Captain, the winds have changed. And the clouds are gathering. A storm approaches so—“_

_“We’re going to dock in harbor by nightfall.”_

_“But sir, the rocks—“_

_“Just get it done!”_ he barked.

In his lust for the gold he knew was close at hand he disregarded Ori’s warning and soon enough a storm had rolled in, battering the ship with rain and catching the sails with wind. And in his lust he had misjudged the distance he could safely pass between the rocks. So despite his men’s best efforts, when they felt the first jolt Thorin knew they had hit the rocks. The current dragged them further into the reef of rocks, splitting the bowels of their ship wide open. As the rain continued to pour they took on water. Men clung to anything they could to keep their heads above the water but many were not so lucky and were dragged under. It was as Thorin and his close mates were getting pulled under he heard it. It had to have been his imagination. As salt water filled his mouth he could swear he could hear the tune that Bilbo often played on the harp. The waves washed over him as he struggled to keep afloat. A wave swept over his head and when he surfaced he swore he could see a man standing on a floating piece of debris before him.

                _“I will save you and your entire crew.”_

_Why?_

_“My son has pleaded with me,”_ the figure replied. He had a large hat with a single long feather poking out of it. His coat was tattered and his boots caked with mud. _“You mean a great deal to him.”_

_And if you do…?_

_“You will aid him in his duties. You will help him ferry souls.”_

_Bilbo…_

_“I’ll take that as a yes.”_

And that was how he came to be the ferryman of souls. He and his crew had all awoken on a strange new ship, a ship they would be sailing on for the rest of eternity. They had immediately abandoned the quest for the gold and sailed back to Hobbiton. The crew remained on the ship, afraid of they had become—men who even when a bullet was put through their head couldn’t die—while their captain went ashore. He made his way to the house of Bilbo but this time he didn’t get to the door before he was intercepted. The blonde ran from the porch into his arms.

                _“I’m sorry-!”_ Thorin found himself gasping out as he buried his face in Bilbo’s curly hair.

Bilbo stood on his toes and kissed Thorin fiercely. _“I’m sorry. I haven’t been honest with you either, I’m…”_

Bilbo wasn’t his real name. His real name was Calypso. He was a god. His job was to maintain balance over the sea and ferry the souls of those lost at sea to the otherworld. He had seen Thorin’s dalliance with the mysterious woman and had grown so furious he neglected his duties and sought the arms of another for spite. But when he neglected his duties the ocean, which was linked to his own emotions sought to swallow Thorin and his men out of rage. Bilbo begged his father, god of the ocean, to save his lover because he could not so easily quell the anger in his heart and his father agreed. But as a condition Thorin and his men forfeited their mortal lives. They must sail the seas, never docking in port except for every tenth year. They must maintain one hundred men on their vessel—the original number of the crew that had been with Thorin as he sailed to Moria. The men had to work one hundred years before the mast and only after their time was up could they either move on to the afterlife or serve again.

                _“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you,”_ Bilbo admitted, sadly stroking Thorin’s cheek while they stood on the front porch. _“Gods aren’t meant to love mortals…because it ends like this: in tragedy. But you were so sweet…and adventurous and loving. I couldn’t help…”_

                “Captain, we are quickly approaching Hobbiton.”

Bombur’s voice stirred Thorin from his memories. He sat before the organ, staring down at the keys lost in thought. Bombur, one of his large, red headed deck hands from the original one hundred stood to his right, eyes filled with concern—a mortal habit it seemed that in their two hundred some years as immortals they had yet to shake.

                “Make preparations to anchor and for me to go ashore.”

                “As you command.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I made Smaug a kraken...And the opening scene was based off on of the movies...I just can't remember which one it was. And yes, I tried to be ironic by making Bard take the role of Will Turner....cuz they look identical. The woman that slept with Thorin was supposed to be a personification of gold lust but I don't know if anyone actually will get that...And I'm sorry. Bilbo and Thranduil. I'm sorry...


End file.
